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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615241">Homecoming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher'>buttcatcher</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, WE'RE ALMOST THERE GUYS, and come to a few realizations, cirilla teaches geralt the language of flowers ok, geralt works out his feelings, jaskier needed to give his big baby witcher time to think things over, lil'bleater for leader of kaer morhen 2k20, this one hurt to write but it's getting better, yall are gonna hate me for the cliffhanger tho</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 07:08:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roach carries her owner and his daughter over precarious terrain day in and day out, pushing herself well beyond her limits as she senses the mess of emotions coming from Geralt. There truly is no time to waste; not this far in the Blue Mountains, where human lives become scarce and merciless wildlife has taken over. </p><p>The journey is as long and tiring as it always is, though now Geralt has Cirilla and his thoughts to keep him company through the mountain passes.</p><p>And boy, do they ever.</p><p>“I can’t believe you,” Cirilla continues to berate him for the snippets of the conversation she overheard between her two guardians back at their campsite, “Why did you treat him like that? I love you, Geralt, but that’s just mean.” Geralt can feel the vibrations of her voice against his chest where she leans into him on the saddle. </p><p>His heart clenches at her proclamation of love, then quickly twists for a whole new reason when she brings up his treatment of the troubadour. </p><p>She isn’t wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1203</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hooooo boy okay, this is part one of two, then there will be one last addition to this au to wrap it up. Thank you all for sticking with the story so far and taking the time to leave comments and kudos; I read every single comment and adore each and every one of you. I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roach carries her owner and his daughter over precarious terrain day in and day out, pushing herself well beyond her limits as she senses the mess of emotions coming from Geralt. There truly is no time to waste; not this far in the Blue Mountains, where human lives become scarce and merciless wildlife has taken over. </p><p>The journey is as long and tiring as it always is, though now Geralt has Cirilla and his thoughts to keep him company through the mountain passes.</p><p>And boy, do they ever.</p><p>“I can’t believe you,” Cirilla continues to berate him for the snippets of the conversation she overheard between her two guardians back at their campsite, “Why did you treat him like that? I love you, Geralt, but that’s just mean.” Geralt can feel the vibrations of her voice against his chest where she leans into him on the saddle. </p><p>His heart clenches at her proclamation of love, then quickly twists for a whole new reason when she brings up his treatment of the troubadour. </p><p>She isn’t wrong.</p><p>Geralt is ashamed to admit that it took Jaskier sobbing out a love confession and threatening to leave for him to pull his head out of his ass and rethink his previous actions.</p><p>Everything Jaskier shouted at him was true. He had spit hurtful words at the bard on the top of that mountain, and while that had been the catalyst for their brief falling out, Geralt recognizes his large role in making Jaskier feel the way he does.</p><p>The gentle thumping of the troubadour's lute strapped to Roach’s saddlebags creates a soothing background noise as Geralt gently runs his fingers over the smooth wood every now and again to assure himself it’s still there.</p><p>That no matter what is to happen between them, Jaskier wouldn't <i>dream</i> of leaving his lute behind.</p><p>Every previous interaction between the two of them is put under scrutiny as Geralt mulls over all the times he insulted the bard without thinking, so used to only a horse for company that the topic of feelings hadn’t crossed his mind. All the times he caught Jaskier giving him sorrowful, yearning eyes after performing a particularly heart wrenching love song and assumed he was staring at one of the tavern maids instead. All the countless times Jaskier patched him up with steady musician’s hands, smoother and more comforting than any man’s hands had any right to be as he murmured praises and soothing words to ease Geralt’s pain.</p><p>Jaskier has done everything in his power to make Geralt happy, and Geralt burned him.<br/>
He doesn’t know if fire can even burn a dragon.</p><p>Most likely not, but words don’t have to take the form of flames to burn.</p><p>“I know.” Geralt whispers into the crown of Cirilla’s hair as they pass under a low hanging tree branch. “I know. I didn’t open up to him because I… I think I was afraid.”</p><p>“Oh.” Cirilla shuffles closer against his chest when a frigid breeze blows past them. “Well, I could have told you that. Whenever you look at him, your eyes glaze over with this emotion that makes them all glossy looking. It’s sort of like what I think Eist felt for my grandmother; both absolutely terrified and so helplessly besotted.”</p><p>Being lectured about his emotions by a child should be upsetting, but Geralt can’t bring himself to feel anything but proud. What a little spitfire he has gotten as his Child Surprise. </p><p>“They do?” He humors her as he continues to mentally turn over every conversation he’s had with Jaskier in their long friendship, wincing more and more as his biting words come back to haunt him.</p><p>Cirilla nods her head enthusiastically. “They do. They don’t look that way when you see Yennefer. You just look scared. When you look at Jaskier- I mean, you look a <i>little</i> scared, but I think that’s just because you’re scared of rejection.”</p><p>That at least earns her an amused huff from the witcher as he mulls over her words. She isn’t wrong; deep down, Geralt knows he isn’t the best at allowing people’s resentment and rejection to roll off his shoulders, and the mere <i>thought</i> of Jaskier hating him like the others... </p><p>It’s an intimidating thought. “She is an intimidating woman.” He agrees.</p><p>“Hmm,” Cirilla hums at him in a way so similar to his own pattern of answering that Geralt can’t help  but hold her even tighter against him.</p><p>It was odd, being able to speak his mind to someone and have them actually listen. Never before had he felt safe enough to confide in another being and work out what he was experiencing without feeling he was overstepping by simply holding conversation with someone.</p><p>Not many people want to look at him, let alone <i>converse</i> with him. It was always about an Alghoul here, a Feind there, a nest of Nekkers just a stone's throw outside the town. The only snippets of conversation he managed to have were with aldermans who were paying him to kill monsters, or blacksmiths who needed to know how to size the armor he was getting commissioned. There were even a handful of whores who seemed vaguely interested in the things he had to say, though he’s sure much of that willingness was influenced by coin.</p><p>Not to mention the peasants and townsfolk who spit at his feet as he walked past, not a single word uttered from him to invoke their ire.</p><p>Geralt is quickly finding it easier to work through his emotions with someone willing to engage him than bottling them up and shoving them so far down that even hoards of Drowned Dead wouldn’t venture that low. </p><p>When that method of suppressing didn’t work and everything became too much to hold inside, Geralt resorted to lashing out. Many trees along the Continent can attest to the strength of his feelings as he let loose on their ancient bark, the force of his punches so strong that roots were upended and entire trees fell to the ground.</p><p>The scars on his knuckles aren’t just from monsters.</p><p>Geralt has always known his method of dealing with emotions isn’t healthy, isn’t even in the realm of normal, but never would he have thought being able to speak his mind like this would help untangle every thread of emotion he has knotted up inside his chest.</p><p> It’s… cathartic. Soothing in all the ways it’s terrifying.</p><p>But for Jaskier, he would do anything, even if it meant remaking himself into the person the blue eyed man so dearly deserves.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Geralt owes Roach an entire barrel of sugar cubes when they reach the Keep. Her great body shudders under them as she drags herself to the area Geralt knows like the back of his hand, heralding them safely over rugged cliffs and down steep valleys. Tall spires peak out from above tree tops as they close in on Kaer Morhen, the ancient fortress still as barren looking as Geralt remembers. </p><p>“Is that it?” Cirilla asks tiredly from where she’s slumped back against Geralt’s chest in the saddle, exhausted and freezing from the cool temperatures even as she fiddles with something in her pocket with chilled fingers. Her nose is red and she’s beginning to sniffle, so despite his instincts telling him something isn’t right, that someone is missing, Geralt presses on until he can see the large archway leading to the drawbridge that separates humans from the home of witchers. </p><p>It’s always an odd experience, coming back to the place where he was changed against his will, taken apart and made again to be a monster masquerading as a man. This, the only permanent place he could truly call the closest to home, was the very same place his mother abandoned him to and allowed his humanity to be stripped from him. The stone walls in the fortress acted as the only willing ears for his cries during the trials, his pleas and pain soaked into stone that would never utter a word of his weaknesses to anyone. Even during the extra rounds of mutagens he was subjected to, the walls of Kaer Morhen were his only confidant. </p><p>It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. Vesemir and the other elder witchers had been so busy trying to wrangle hoards of prepubescent boys into order that they simply hadn’t had the spare time to listen to the ramblings of a single kid.</p><p>Wolves are pack animals, that much is true, but even wolves know when one of their own isn’t quite like the rest. </p><p>The boys who trained with him as a child treated him the same as any other young adolescents at that age; they gave him a vague sense of family and kinship up until they started dying off one by one, and by then his hair had been bleached white by the mutagens and only a fraction of the boys were left. </p><p>They feared him back then, he knows. An anomaly who took to the trials more successfully than any other had before was a scary sight.</p><p>He was something more mutated and twisted than the others.</p><p>Even Eskel, the boy he could almost call a friend by the time the trials were over, reeked of fear whenever Geralt managed to overpower him during training or exhibited strength and power that was beyond even the scope of the hardest trained witchers.</p><p>His relationship with his brothers is much better nowadays as their respective paths shaped their views and helped them grow, Eskel and Lambert both more than comfortable enough around him now and vice versa. </p><p>But back then, in a house full of wolves, he was alone.</p><p>Left to mature alone, to fight past gruelling battles and soul shattering trials to forge himself into the person he was told to be without a shoulder to lean on or a voice to simply assure him everything would turn out alright, Geralt shaped himself.</p><p>Molded himself from the silence and averted eyes around him, caged his heart so none could be granted the right to destroy him.</p><p>Muscle memory takes over as he pushes Roach that last few yards, giving his head a subtle shake to snap himself out of memories that never did him any good. The groaning and creaking of the great bridge echoes through the empty forests surrounding the Keep and in Geralt’s ears as the wooden structure finally lowers enough to reveal the one man who actively stayed in the fortress’s crumbling walls year round.</p><p>The one man Geralt could admit was the closest thing to a father figure he has ever had. </p><p>“Geralt.” A man calls out, the winds carrying his commanding voice, “Didn’t know if you would be making it back this year.” </p><p>The voice is gruff and weathered, the exact same no nonsense tone he has listened to throughout his long lifetime. It’s the sound Geralt has heard every winter he returns to the closest thing he has to a permanent home. There is no inflection in Vesemir’s voice as he crosses the bridge to greet them but there is a shadow of contentment dancing in those ancient eyes of his. “I see you brought a guest.”</p><p>Cirilla stares down at Vesemir with a guarded look before she takes note of the wolf medallion and the tell tale witcher’s eyes. Her posture instantly relaxes, slumping back against Geralt’s chest as she rakes her eyes up and down the man before her, sizing him up.</p><p>“One of two.” Geralt amends as he dismounts and grabs Roach’s reins to guide her into the Keep, easily falling in step beside his mentor with ease. Cirilla scoots back in the saddle to seat herself properly as she allows herself to be led on the horse.</p><p>“Jaskier is coming later.” Cirilla adds as she clutches her coat and blankets around herself while trying to not ogle the rundown fortress around her as they come into the courtyard, her eyes wide and mouth agape at the sheer size of everything. </p><p>To Geralt, the moss that hangs down from abandoned posts along the walls and the ever present scent of fresh dirt and weathered stone are the same as they have been in years past. Sure, there’s another crack or two that are new, but to someone like Cirilla, who has gone from riches to orphaned to homeless, it must be awe inspiring.</p><p>The many lines around the eldest wolf’s eyes soften and crinkle as he takes in the young form of the princess. “Jaskier is the bard Geralt has ranted about, I presume?”</p><p>“Yes,” Cirilla confirms before Geralt can drag himself out of his own head to answer, “He had to stay behind to take care of some bandits but he should be coming soon.”</p><p>The look Vesemir shoots him reeks of confusion. Geralt can understand where he’s coming from. Leaving a bard by himself to handle a group of brigands sounds asinine, and if he hadn’t lived through witnessing said bard tearing down halflings like a knife through butter, he would agree.</p><p>But Jaskier is no bard.</p><p>Has never been <i>just</i> a bard. </p><p>In light of recent events, Geralt still struggles to reconcile the fact that the innocent, well meaning and bright eyed man he met in Posada so long ago is the same man who brutally cut down multiple people without breaking a sweat.</p><p>A man who is of a dying breed much like himself. A man who is likely one of the last of his kind.</p><p>A man whose emotions are so strong Geralt could feel them resonate in his bones as though they are his own. They invade his heart and his thoughts, making it impossible to keep up the facade of feeling nothing, of needing nothing.</p><p>What a pretender he is turning out to be.</p><p>“Your sorceress portaled herself into the Keep several days ago.” Vesemir interrupts his line of thought as he grunts in distaste, their measured pace slowly but surely leading them further into the fortress until they’re standing in front of the tall wooden doors that lead to the main hall. “Been refusing to help me repair a hole in the south wall and instead took up residence in one of the towers.”</p><p>So Yennefer had managed to weasel her way into Kaer Morhen without the help of a witcher.</p><p>Somehow, that isn’t surprising.</p><p>“Yennefer is here?” Cirilla asks as she carefully dismounts Roach, the mare snuffling affectionately at her hair before Vesemir moves to lead her to the stables. </p><p>“Yes, she is. Do me a favor and tell her our alchemy supplies aren’t meant to be ground into cosmetics. It’s taken me long enough to gather them; I don’t need some sorceress wasting them all for vanity.”</p><p>And with that, Vesemir leaves Geralt and Cirilla at the doors of the main hall as he ambles down toward the stables with Roach. </p><p>Suddenly, Geralt doesn’t feel much like going inside. Being here with his mentor and brothers always lowered his hackles and soothed his wariness, but knowing who lay beyond this door all but sucked the contentment from his entire being like a particularly pissed off Bruxa.</p><p>Cirilla doesn’t seem to share his reservations as she speeds past him and pushes open one of the great doors, grunting in effort when a rusty hinge gets caught and she has to force it open.</p><p>As soon as they step inside, Geralt feels himself unwind against his better judgement.</p><p>Everything is exactly as it had been last winter. High ceilings tower over their heads, the tables strewn around the large area the same ones he and his brothers shared stories and played drinking games at. Even the smells of the forge are the same, the slight hints of sulfur wafting up from the hot springs beneath the Keep tickling his nose.</p><p>It’s all the same except for the very irritated sorceress suddenly standing before him, not a single hair out of place.</p><p>Violet eyes that used to make his heart ache for an entirely different reason now stare at him in accusation, the scent of lilac and gooseberries suddenly too stifling even with the high ceilings and draft flowing through the open space around them. “You certainly took your time.”</p><p>“Portals take seconds. Getting here from where we were took a week on foot.”</p><p>Yennefer isn’t buying his explanation. “You could have portaled with me. I offered.”</p><p>She knows how much he despises portals, yet insists he uses them. “Don’t like portals much. And Roach hates them.”</p><p>“You don’t have to like it to find it useful. But nevertheless, why did it take you so long to arrive? Surely a big bad witcher such as yourself wasn’t bested by a mere rockslide in the mountains you know so well.”</p><p>Geralt’s heart twists at her words. Had he really chosen this critical woman time and time again over the one man who stayed by his side of his own volition? The man who offered help and support and understanding even when it wasn’t deserved?</p><p>Jaskier wanting time to think on his own without having to bear witness to the pile of bullshit Geralt calls his life suddenly makes a lot more sense. </p><p>The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Got caught up.” Is all he says as he shrugs off their packs and places them against a wall in the main hall, only half paying attention to what the sorceress is saying as he keeps his gaze trained on Cirilla.</p><p>Cirilla, who is fluttering around the grindstones and armorer benches like she’s never seen anything so fascinating before. </p><p>It brings a silent smile to his lips before she reaches out to touch a precariously placed dagger that has Lambert’s name written all over it, Moon Dust powder all over the handle as though he spilled the beginnings of a bomb on it and just left it. “Don’t touch that.” He barks, satisfied when she snatches her hand back with a guilty look.</p><p>Yennefer watches all of this with raised eyebrows. “You’re really falling into the father role, huh?”</p><p>To anyone else, her words would sound like a compliment. But that’s just it- he knows Yennefer, knows how her words are a double edged sword that mean the opposite of what she says. </p><p>Knows that as much as she insults him for stepping up and becoming a guardian to the child, she yearns for the role of mother to appease her horrible self confidence. “Hmm.”</p><p>Those otherworldly colored eyes roll as she uncrosses her arms and puts her hands on her hips with a scoff. “Eloquent. By the way, I noticed the absence of that pompous, frilly puppy you call your bard.” She makes a show of glancing around the Keep Geralt calls his home with a scrunched nose, clearly taking note of the dust and cobwebs that have cropped up during the lack of habitation. “Don’t tell me you finally got sick of his yammering and pushed him off a cliff or something. Wouldn’t put it past you, what with your whole disregard for people making their own choices thing you have going on, but that would be pushing it a bit too far even for you.”</p><p>And that right there is why he has to take Yennefer in small doses. Their romance was a whirlwind at the start, but like with every storm seen from far away, the destructive force appears harmless until it’s caught up to you and left nothing but demolition in its wake. </p><p>She was a storm and, while exhilarating at first, quickly wore him down.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t grace her with a response as he shoulders his packs once again and gives a quick, sharp whistle, one he knows Cirilla recognizes as him calling her without wanting to raise his voice. </p><p>These walls have held for centuries, but Geralt would feel a tad guilty if his yelling was the thing that finally caused them to crumble.</p><p>Not to mention the punishment he would receive from Vesemir.</p><p>He suppresses a shudder at the thought.</p><p>Yennefer is staring slack jawed at him as he turns his back to her and heads up the stairs to where the bedrooms are, flanked by a curious Cirilla as she flutters from room to room, peeking into every one that isn’t locked. </p><p>There are many rooms; rooms that haven’t seen living creatures in them for much too long. Most that were inhabited by countless young boys in the past are simply left alone now, not a single surface touched after the sacking of Kaer Morhen.</p><p>Geralt suspects it pains Vesemir too much to be reminded of that day to bother tidying up the empty rooms.</p><p>“Where am I going to sleep?” Cirilla asks as he leads her to the end of the hall in the sleeping quarters, darting off once Geralt sighs and points to the room right across from his own.</p><p>Her sleeping quarters are flanked by rooms that belong to Eskel and Lambert on either side, and while Geralt hasn’t sensed them in the Keep quite yet, he has it on good faith his brothers will be showing up soon.</p><p>And hopefully, if Jaskier can stand forgiving him for the thousandth time and give him one last chance he doesn’t deserve, then his bard won't be too far behind them.</p><p>Cirilla quickly inspects her room before coming over to Geralt to retrieve her pack from him, satisfied with whatever she found in her room for the winter. “Where is Jaskier going to sleep?”</p><p>Oh. </p><p>After everything that had transpired between them, the thought of Jaskier not sharing his room with him hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was second nature at this point between them to rent a single room at the inns they stumbled into under the guise of saving coin, though they haven’t slept in the same bed for over two years. </p><p>It was instinct. A deliberately crafted one borne from habits and repeated choices, but an instinct all the same.</p><p>Perhaps it stemmed from one of the mutagens he had been forced to coexist with, or maybe it was some sort of pack mentality that kept him awake at night when he couldn’t hear the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart beside him. </p><p>Whatever the case may be, the thought of not sharing a room with the bard makes his chest ache, though he knows he doesn't have the right to feel that way.</p><p>He has forfeited the right to feel entitled to anything the bard had to offer the first time he tossed him aside for Yennefer.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Two days later, his brothers show up.</p><p>Lambert is a whirlwind of sass and backhanded remarks delivered in a snarky tone while Eskel is his quiet, introspective self. Their presence immediately puts Geralt at ease and Cirilla warms up to them both quite fast, though it’s clear as the days go by that Lambert in particular has a soft spot for her.</p><p>After all, his younger brother never bothered to take <i>him</i> fishing with Grapeshot bombs.</p><p>Strangely, Yennefer doesn’t bless them with her presence as she stays mostly in her pilfered tower room, clearly content with her lot in the castle as she makes no move to interact with the witchers, though she seems interested enough in Cirilla.</p><p>Geralt acknowledges begrudgingly that Yennefer is going to have to teach Cirilla how to control her chaos in the very near future. She is the most powerful sorceress he knows, and one whose loyalties lie solely within herself, though Geralt knows she would never harm his Child Surprise. She may be an insatiable hurricane of a woman, but she has a gentle heart when it comes to children. He has made his peace with it.</p><p>That, of course, doesn’t mean he likes it.</p><p>But Jaskier isn’t here to soothe his worries or make Cirilla smile with that baudy, godsawful sense of humor he has. Yennefer together with the princess would result in Cirilla undoubtedly trying the sorceress’s finite patience while trying to master control of her chaos and causing tension between them, tension that could be the difference between life and death where Nilfgaard is involved.</p><p>Thus, wherever Cirilla goes, a witcher is right there beside her.</p><p>It simultaneously feels like no time has passed and yet at the same time years have flown by before Geralt finally settles into routine at the Keep and begins to grow restless.</p><p>It only takes a day before Geralt is ready to vibrate out of his skin with worry.</p><p>First, it’s Eskel who corners him as he’s on his way to his room after lunch on their third day at the Keep, too wrapped up in his anxious thoughts about the chance of something happening to Jaskier that the other witcher catches him by surprise. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Geralt fights with himself to not show how taken aback he is at the fact Eskel can read him so well as he turns to face the other man. “Nothing is wrong. I’m just waiting for my bard.”</p><p>Recognition sparks in soft yellow eyes, lighting up the face Geralt has more than once heard people call handsome, both before and after the trials. “Ah. That explains it.”</p><p>“He’s late.” Geralt elaborates.</p><p>“Geralt,” Eskel begins, taking a step back from the doorway leading into the white haired witcher’s room to lean comfortably against the wall, arms crossed. They’ve both swapped their armor for much softer loungewear, long sleeved tops stretching their shoulders and dark trousers cinched at the waist allowing them more comfort. “It’s alright to be anxious. Hell, Lambert is always anxious when he knows Vesemir has found his new stash of experimental bombs.”</p><p>A snort leaves him unbidden. “He’s still got that habit?”</p><p>“You know him, always gotta ruffle ol’ papa Vesemir’s feathers.”</p><p>They share a private moment of mutual amusement before Eskel sighs and runs a hand back through his brown hair, muted grey shirt shifting as his chest expands and deflates. “I just- listen, Geralt, I don’t mean to intrude, but if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”</p><p>That stuns Geralt into silence.</p><p>Distantly, he knows his brothers and Vesemir care about him. They wouldn’t allow him to winter in Kaer Morhen if they didn’t at least tolerate him. Hell, he was shocked when Coën and Aiden stayed in the Keep and didn’t raise a fuss when he continued to return year after year. True, he knows a part of them still holds a healthy modicum of fear; still uneasy about the anomaly that is himself, but their typical brand of comforting one another was spitting insults and wrestling each other on the ground before Vesemir had to pull them apart.</p><p>Never had either Eskel or Lambert outright <i>asked</i> how he was feeling.</p><p>That was usually something only Jaskier did. “What?”</p><p>Eskel hurriedly attempts to implement what he apparently thinks is damage control. His expression flickers between subtle embarrassment and a tinge of worry. “I really don’t mean to intrude but the sound of your pacing keeps us up at night and I agreed to be the one to tell you rather than Lambert because- well, you know why.”</p><p>Geralt merely blinks. Yes, that sounds more like the brothers he knows. “I don’t pace.”</p><p>An irritated voice bellows from the floor below them, sounding from the kitchen. “You sound like a herd of rock trolls wrestling a fucking Wyvern, Geralt!” Lambert yells from below with an edge in his tone, obviously having heard their conversation and decided that this is the metaphorical hill he is to die on.</p><p>Soft waves of exasperation mingle in Eskel’s natural scent as he sighs. “While he should have put that more gently, Lambert is right. You <i>do</i> pace. And if this bard is anything like the stories you told of him for the past two years, he’ll make it in one piece.”</p><p>“And if he doesn’t, we’ll hunt him down!” Lambert supplies helpfully from the kitchens, his voice nearly cracking at the end with the volume he was trying to force from his throat.</p><p>And that was the end of that.</p><p>Or at least it was until nighttime fell upon them that same day.</p><p>Geralt paces furiously in his room after having put Cirilla to bed, Lambert be damned, the smell of the old stone walls and dusty furs not comforting him the way they used to in years past.</p><p>Jaskier should have been here already. Their campsite was a mere week away from the Keep; there was no way it was taking him this long to wipe out a few bandits.</p><p>Not when it had taken him mere moments to annihilate an entire campsite full of them.</p><p>Their scents were scarce, back when Jaskier mentioned sensing them. They were definitely the same breed of halfling as the ones who attacked them and their numbers were significantly smaller, so Jaskier should have no trouble keeping them from following.</p><p>Yet his heart races faster with each hour that goes by.</p><p>Cirilla isn’t faring much better than him. She had taken to trying to sneak out at every opportunity to go looking for the bard, pouting greatly when Lambert or Eskel inevitably caught her trying to be stealthy. She hissed and protested when none of the wolves would allow her out on her own, and while Geralt was immensely grateful for his brother’s help in assuring her safety, he was getting to the point where he was about to go off in search of the minstrel himself. </p><p>Her attempts to escape and go on a one child rescue mission cease in the span of a single day as though she suddenly remembers something and all intent to leave Kaer Morhen has disappeared. It’s troubling when she begins to act strangely. </p><p>Every night, she insists on sleeping with a bundle of strings she refuses to let leave her person for any reason. They reek of magic, but every time Geralt tries to ask her what they’re for and who they’re from, she shoves it in her pocket and gives him a knowing look.</p><p>He does not appreciate that look.</p><p>He does not appreciate Lambert’s screams for them to go to sleep and shut up, either.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>On the morning of the fourth day after their arrival, Geralt decides he has to do something before his worrying drives him into an early grave.</p><p>Logically, worrying himself out over a being so old and obviously <i>powerful</i> accomplishes less than one would expect, but Geralt can’t shake the unease. </p><p>Yes, Jaskier is not as human as he was led to believe. Yes, the bard is more than capable of taking care of himself. <i>Yes,</i> Geralt knows fretting over him like a mother hen even more than usual despite knowing his nature is getting him nowhere very quickly.</p><p>So much time alone with himself and his own thoughts isn’t comforting after having been accompanied by a talkative bard and fearless princess for so long. The feelings of inadequacy and regret bog him down in the silence so heavily that simply forcing his limbs to move takes a considerable amount of effort. </p><p>And that doesn’t even begin to cover the searing guilt that spreads through his chest like wildfire.</p><p>Wishing to be left alone to think is perhaps one of the habits he hates most about his younger self. Had he known the Path could be bright and full of music and pearly laughter instead of muted greys and monster innards, Geralt never would have tried to push Jaskier away and run from him when the strength of the affection in his chest threatened to choke him.</p><p>Never would have allowed himself to become the monster he always struggled to defeat.</p><p>Jaskier leaving his side and plunging his world into darkness and silence so loud it deafens is the catalyst for Geralt being forced to realize just how much the bard means to him, mortal or not.</p><p>And, had he actually <i>been</i> a mortal, Geralt knows he would have continued to allow Jaskier to tag along until the end of his days, never voicing the affection in his heart and the itch in his limbs to hold the boisterous minstrel. Jaskier isn’t a man who is destined to be tied down. The cheerful troubadour falls in love with humans as easy as he breathes, falling into bed with a different lover every night like one would change a pair of trousers. He would have been content with giving Jaskier the life he thought the bard wanted, the one he flourishes in; a life of adventure and nothing tying him down, let alone a rope around his neck held by a monster. </p><p>Would have continued running to Yennefer to escape the love he had for his bard, too terrified to breach the divide between them and ask for what he knows he doesn’t deserve, what he thought Jaskier was unable to give.</p><p>Had Jaskier not revealed himself to be possibly one of the rarest creatures in existence other than Higher Vampires, Geralt is ashamed to admit to himself that he most likely wouldn't have realized the true depth of his feelings for the bard until long after the man had passed.</p><p>It’s a sobering thought.</p><p>Never before has Geralt had to try so hard to not sprint out of Kaer Morhen at full speed and seek out the one man he can truly call his home.</p><p>Jaskier had asked to be left alone to think after their argument, and Geralt is determined to grant him that wish no matter the sleepless nights he spends worrying over the bard as a result. </p><p>It is the least he can do, after everything. </p><p>Especially if there is any hope of them coming to terms with one another and reconciling. </p><p>Cirilla finds him wandering the training grounds early in the morning. A light mist settles over the ancient stones and patches of grass that crop up from training dummies and old grindstones, painting the weeds that grow there in a dull contrast to the bright colors he knows they are in the sun. “Geralt,” Cirilla calls out as she rubs a hand over eyes that boast purple bags beneath them, her voice just as tired and unkempt as her appearance as she takes in the early morning view. “Why are you out here so early? Vesemir said we’re not training until-”</p><p>“Until Jaskier gets here, I know.” Geralt cuts her off before he can stop himself. </p><p>The silence that creeps upon the Keep in the scarce hours before the sun truly comes up echoes around them as Geralt paces around the training area once again, restless and deep in his thoughts before he hears a soft ‘oh’ come from his Child Surprise. </p><p>“You miss him.”</p><p>Geralt stops in his tracks to stare at her for a moment before lowering his head and heaving a heavy sigh. “I’m… worried.” He amends.</p><p>“Worried about how much you miss him?”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>It's not an immediate denial of his feelings, so Cirilla clearly takes that as a win. “Were you out here walking around like this all night?”</p><p>It’s an innocent question as far as questions go, yet Geralt feels almost guilty as he runs a hand back through white hair that was in severe need of a wash. His eyes boast the same purple bags underneath them that Cirilla’s do; there’s no use in denying it. “Couldn't sleep.”</p><p>Green eyes wander around the training area as she hums in agreement. “I couldn’t sleep either. I keep thinking about Jaskier. But I know wherever he is, he’s safe.”</p><p>She says it with such confidence that Geralt can’t help but believe her despite all instincts telling him she couldn’t possibly know something like that. “Is he?”</p><p>The lioness gives a determined nod before crouching to pick at a yellow flower peeking up from between a fallen dummy’s arms. She gathers a few of them in her hands before taking a hesitant step toward Geralt. “He is. I know I haven’t known him as long as you have, but he’s strong, both physically and mentally. If he could survive being by your side and going on hunts with you for all those years, I doubt anything can get a jump on him.”</p><p>Logic tells Geralt that Cirilla is right.</p><p>Logic also tells him that now, once he thinks about it, there is no way a mere human would have been able to keep up with his brisk pace on many of the hunts that far exceeded human limitations. Walking for a day or two without stopping isn’t something mortals tend to be able to do. Very rarely did Jaskier ever whine for a break during those times, and though the man was often soaked in sweat and down to his chemise in the summer heat, not a hint of soreness or pain mixed into his scent.</p><p>Not once in all the years they’ve known one another has Jaskier smelled of pain while tagging along. In fact, the times he resolutely dug his heels into the dirt and begged Geralt for a break, the bard only smelled of happiness.</p><p>Like he simply wanted a break just to be able to take in the views around them rather than to rest his feet.</p><p>Before Geralt has time to formulate a response, a small handful of yellow flowers are being thrust at his chest. “Daffodils.” Cirilla begins, “Symbolize rebirth and reform.”</p><p>Confusion tugs at Geralt’s mouth even as he carefully takes the flowers from her tiny hand. All previous thoughts about his travels with a very resilient Jaskier flee his mind as his tired eyes focus on the bright flowers in his hand. “Are you an herbalist now?”</p><p>That coaxes a little smile from his ward. “No, but I loved spending time in the gardens back home. One of the maids used to teach me about flowers as she watered them.”</p><p>It’s such an insignificant sounding bit of information. Being taught the language of flowers by a maid isn’t something to think about twice, but Geralt knows what Cirilla isn’t saying. This bit of her life before Nilfgaard had stolen her family from her is sacred, held so close to her heart and yet she decides to share it with someone with a track record of breaking hearts.</p><p>Geralt is flattered.</p><p>“Her name was Armona,” Cirilla continues as she wanders off to collect more flowers from a bush, blue and purple ones this time. “Hydrangea. They mean understanding.” She says as she thrusts those ones into his arms as well.</p><p>The scent of the flowers together is beginning to give him a headache. The smells are too strong for his sensitive nose, and as he reaches up to swipe a hand across it to rid his nares of the lingering smell, an idea pops into his mind.</p><p>It’s a stupid idea. It’s possibly one of the dumbest ideas Geralt has ever had, yet it won’t leave him alone as his feet carry him behind Cirilla, following her silently as she flits from flower to flower. </p><p>“Asters represent wisdom and devotion.” </p><p>“Chrysanthemums mean loyalty and love.”</p><p>“Daisies are- oh, wait, these are just weeds.”</p><p>Geralt listens as Cirilla picks different flowers and adds them to the formidable pile in his arms while giving running commentary on their meaning. She is certainly more knowledgeable about flowers than he ever would have guessed. Perhaps Vesemir will finally have a receptive student when it comes to potion making.</p><p><i>Anyone</i> would be more receptive than Lambert had been.</p><p>Cirilla holds Geralt’s hand as they wander around the courtyard while the sun slowly bathes them in an early morning glow, her excitedly naming the flowers the witcher bends down to pick  until they have a multicolored bouquet amassed in his arms.  </p><p>Yet something about it doesn’t feel quite right.</p><p>It isn’t until they’re about to turn around and head back toward the main hall that a blob of yellow catches his eye where the weeds sway in their position between two stone steps, the crack in them just wide enough for seeds to get through. Not a single thought goes through Geralt’s mind as he absentmindedly crouches next to the patch of little yellow weeds and starts plucking them from their home with single minded focus, not stopping until every flower is in his possession.</p><p>“Um,” Cirilla begins as she squints at the weeds Geralt has just added to their rather impressive collection of wildflowers. “Those are dandelions. I… don’t know what they mean.”</p><p>“They’re weeds.” Gealt tells her even as he carefully arranges them so they don’t get crushed against his chest.</p><p>“They are, so why are you picking them?”</p><p>Geralt tucks the fragile little things carefully on the top of the plant pile in his arms, right above his heart. “He likes dandelions.”</p><p>All at once, understanding dawns on Cirilla’s face just as embarrassment tightens Geralt’s shoulders. When he expects teasing words or a laugh, the unexpected happens. </p><p>Cirilla gives him a look so fond and approving that had he not already been crouching, he might have fallen to his knees from the force of it alone. “He’ll love it,” She beams as she tugs him up and swings Geralt’s free hand back and forth between them on their way back into the Keep. “But that’s not going to fix everything. You need to <i>speak</i> with him like you have with me. People can’t communicate clearly with each other by simple grunts and running from their feelings. Just be honest with him; he seems like the forgiving sort.”</p><p>And with that, she books it back into the Keep before Geralt can wrap his mind around what she had said.</p><p>Later on, the bouquet of flowers are placed in a spare tankard Geralt manages to scrounge up from the kitchens, some cooled water from the spring below the Keep allowing the flowers to flourish where they’re placed on the nightstand beside the bed he intends to give to Jaskier should the man not want to share a bed and demand Geralt to sleep on the floor like the creature he knows he is. </p><p>He would understand. </p><p>He would also beg, however, to be allowed to stay in the same room as the bard if only to appease his instincts and assure himself of Jaskier’s safety.</p><p>Should Jaskier refuse him though, Geralt would relent and do what he wishes.</p><p>Brushing the little bundle of dandelions tied off with a light blue ribbon Cirilla had found in their packs off his bed along with Jaskier’s lute would hurt more than he was ready to admit should the blue eyed man reject his attempts at reconciliation. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“He’s coming.” Cirilla says the next morning as they’re all seated in the dining hall for breakfast, though she’s simply moving her chunks of meat around on her plate with a fork as she says this, her emerald eyes bright and sparkling with a mischief Gearlt hasn’t seen once since they arrived at the Keep. </p><p>Vesemir had prepared a literal feast for them that morning, having been up before the dawn to begin cooking for a fortress that was suddenly so full of life. Earlier, when Lambert asked the older witcher how much he thought they would be able to eat as he gestured to the table spread with choice cuts of meat and bowls of greens, Vesemir simply brushed him off with an explanation of, “Cirilla is going to be training soon. She doesn’t have a witcher’s constitution; she needs a variety of nutrients in her diet if she is to build muscle.”</p><p>Geralt had carefully refrained from commenting on that.</p><p>“Who’s coming?” Lambert inquires from where he’s reclining back in his chair, tossing bits of torn off bread into the air and catching them with his mouth. Eskel only manages to snatch a piece or two before Lambert growls at him and shifts to keep his bread from wandering fingers.</p><p>“Jaskier. He’s almost here.”</p><p>She says it with such certainty that all conversations around the table halt and multiple pairs of eyes quickly focus on where she’s sitting beside an equally confused Geralt. </p><p>“How do you know?” Geralt inquires even as he feels his slow heart rate increase just enough to be almost uncomfortable. </p><p>Cirilla offers him a secret little smile he can’t quite decipher. “I’m a princess of many talents.”</p><p>An ache so acute it nearly steals the breath from his lungs ricochets through Geralt’s chest at the words Jaskier had teased him with not long ago.</p><p>Vesemir undoubtedly hears the nearly inaudible hitch in his breath and casts the two of them a considerate look as he sets his fork down, the last few bites of his stew going untouched. “If that is true, we will meet him in the courtyard.”</p><p>One of them has to keep a look out for the bard, considering they will have to lower the drawbridge to allow him entry into Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is a man full of surprises, but Geralt knows even <i>he</i> won’t be able to slip into the witcher Keep without that bridge being lowered.</p><p>To what little knowledge he has on dragons, they aren’t able to portal themselves around like mages.</p><p>“I’ll go.” Geralt announces before he’s even fully digested the situation beyond the fact that <i>Jaskier is coming home.</i></p><p>“Now wait just a fuckin’ second,” Lambert drawls as he rights his chair and slams an open palm on the table in front of him. “There is absolutely <i>no way</i> I am missing out on meeting this kid. Not after two entire winters of having to put up with you moping around and snapping at everyone.”</p><p>“I wasn’t <i>moping,</i>” Geralt hisses back.</p><p>“Oh, really? Because you sure looked like you were brooding to me-”</p><p>Eskel merely watches his brothers squabble in amusement for a moment before he pushes himself to his feet and interrupts them. “Well, if Lambert is going, I might as well tag along. He’ll be the first human invited into Kaer Morhen aside from Cirilla; can’t miss history being made.”</p><p>Cirilla and Geralt share a quick look with one another before they too push themselves to their feet, all intentions of eating breakfast abandoned as the four witchers and their princess amble out into the morning sun.</p><p>They’ve been milling around the open space completing odd jobs for what feels like hours when Yennefer comes strolling out of the main hall’s doors and casts her piercing gaze along the crumbling walls of the fortress, clad in a tight black dress that accentuates her figure. “Something is coming.” She says in a tight voice.</p><p>Vesemir grunts at her from where he’s lazily sharpening some training blades on a grindstone. He doesn’t even bother raising his head to meet her eyes. “If it’s the realization that you should keep your hands out of my herb supplies, then this has been a long time coming.”</p><p>Geralt can hear Lambert snort and begin to cackle where he stands a few yards away at an armorer’s bench, patching up some clothing Geralt knows Vesemir demanded the youngest witcher repair after some probably avoidable experiments ruined the cloth.</p><p>The glare Yennefer gives the two witchers makes Geralt’s hackles rise, the instinct to protect his pack from a threat, whether it comes from inside the wolf’s den or outside of it, pumping adrenaline rapidly through his veins. A growl starts forming in his chest just as Yennefer opens her mouth once again. </p><p>“I sense chaos. A <i>lot</i> of it.” She clarifies, and that finally gets Vesemir and Geralt’s two brothers to drop what they’re doing and pay attention.</p><p>Or at least until Lambert snorts at her and waves a hand dismissively. “Your senses must have gotten fucked up when you portaled here. There’s nothing that powerful around here; no witcher den would allow such a thing. In fact, just last night I went out and scouted the area to move around after being cooped up in here. There’s nothing out there but deer and crumbling ruins.”</p><p>Perhaps it’s solely because he knows Yennefer, or maybe it’s simply the fact that he can read his brother’s body language like an open book. Whatever it is, Geralt can’t help but scrunch his nose against the scent of unease wafting around the sorceress.</p><p>It is very much not a scent he has ever associated with Yennefer.</p><p>“You don’t get it,” Yennefer snaps back, “I’ve sensed this particular chaos before but never found the source. It’s… not like anything I’ve ever encountered in all my decades of wandering the Continent.”</p><p>That at least gets Vesemir to take her a tad more seriously. His wise eyes narrow at the sorceress as he pushes himself to his feet with a grunt of effort. “Elaborate.”</p><p>The command visibly rubs Yennefer the wrong way. “I was planning to.” She retorts, folding her arms and leaning her weight on one leg to cock her hip as she fixes the fortress’s inhabitants with a severe look. “It’s Old Magic, not something typically found on the Continent. Not many beings possess the power to wield such ancient chaos, but this one…”</p><p>Eskel straightens from where he had been feeding Lil’Bleater some treats, the goat none too happy about his meal ticket shifting his attention elsewhere. “What is it?” He asks just as Lambert comes up to his side and slings an arm around his shoulders, the Keep’s resident goat scampering off at the other witcher’s boisterous presence.</p><p>“Maybe it’s that Rotfiend that seemed to think you would make a good bride,” Lambert taunts as Eskel smacks him away, irritation pulling that scarred lip back over his teeth. </p><p>“Okay, that was <i>one</i> time. Besides, how was I supposed to know it was Rotfiend mating season? The Bestiary doesn’t mention anything about-”</p><p>“Oh for the love of-” Yennefer cuts off their bickering and waves a hand around the fortress. “Are you not hearing what I’m telling you, or has your sense of hearing finally shit the bed in your old age? There is <i>something coming,</i> something I can’t identify as a threat or not. It could be connected to a Nilfgaard siege for all we know!”</p><p>Throughout the whole ordeal, Cirilla is simply collecting bugs she finds crawling over the stones of the Keep, wholly uninterested in the conversation going on around her and oddly unconcerned about a possible impending threat breaking its way through the walls.</p><p>Geralt opens his mouth to ask her what she’s thinking when his senses start to go haywire out of nowhere, adrenaline pumping through his limbs as though he’s about to engage in a fight as instinct screams at him that <i>something is coming we have to fight</i> while simultaneously chanting <i>It smells of home, it’s safe, stand down.</i></p><p>It’s a nauseating back and forth that nearly makes him sick before a hush of silence falls over the Keep.</p><p>Not a single bird utters a peep. The wind seems to all but disappear when it had been quite breezy only seconds before. It’s an unnatural stillness, one that seems to only come when heralding a disaster in a twist of Destiny.</p><p>It’s deeply unsettling.</p><p>A moment goes by. Then another.</p><p>Lambert opens his mouth to probably ask what’s going on when Geralt finally hears it.</p><p>A roar like a thousand beasts screaming thunders through the forest around them and echoes in the courtyard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The head splitting screech rings in Geralt’s sensitive ears as the sound bounces off ancient stone and reverberates through his very bones.</p><p>Loose stones in the Keep vibrate from the noise as everyone but Cirilla and Geralt look around in apprehension and mounting unease, Lambert drawing his silver sword and Eskel brandishing a dagger as another screech rings through the air, this time much closer than before.</p><p>All is silent for a beat before the clouds above them part.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I struggled a lot with this chapter, so I'm sorry if it doesn't quite live up to expectations. There will be one more installment in this series after this, and the rating will be explicit so if that's not something you want to read, this can act as the last part of the series.</p><p>EDIT: Also this video https://youtu.be/Kv1TKpEOK2I at 4:08 is how I imagined Jaskier landing beside Geralt</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The head splitting screech rings in Geralt’s sensitive ears as the sound bounces off ancient stone and reverberates through his very bones.</p><p>Loose stones in the Keep vibrate from the noise as everyone but Cirilla and Geralt look around in apprehension and mounting unease, Lambert drawing his silver sword and Eskel brandishing a dagger as another screech rings through the air, this time much closer than before.</p><p>All is silent for a beat before the clouds above them part.</p><p>Geralt experiences the closest thing to a heart attack a witcher can have as the enormous but familiar body of a dragon descends from the clouds overhead and glides over their heads, its gold underbelly casting a glare off his brother’s weapons as the red creature circles the fortress before great large wings carry it to the wall of the courtyard they’re closest to. The midday sun enhances the crimson webbing in each wing as the dragon grasps the edge of the fortress wall with talons nearly as large as a full grown man, the crumbling bits of stone that fall to the ground in a dusty heap on either side unable to withstand the weight of such a creature.</p><p>Someone casts Quen on the three witchers and sorceress. Geralt is too far away to be shielded in the protective magic where he’s standing near the wall, but he doesn’t bother making the sign with his fingers when a wave of inexplicable calm rushes over him, dousing the churning unease in his gut and replacing it with a relief so strong his knees threaten to buckle.</p><p>No one says a word as the dragon beats its wings and throws its head back with a screech aimed toward the sky, the sound of it deafening this close up. The shadow it casts upon the Keep is formidable; each wing stretched to their fullest is enough to span the entire courtyard they’re in, something Yennefer seems to realize with a look of horror as she quickly calls upon orbs of blue magic on her palms in preparation of what she seems to believe will be a battle.</p><p>She doesn’t recognize the hints of camomile and campfires permeating through the air around them with each beat of leathery wings like Geralt does.</p><p>The sudden scent of magic cuts through the familiar smell and puts Geralt on edge, so much so that he almost reaches for his swords despite them not being present on his person, instead laying beside the lute in his room. It is a motion done out of reflex rather than intent, and just as he considers lunging for a dropped practice sword in case a fight truly does break out, a voice echoing within his head freezes him to the spot. </p><p>
  <i>It’s alright, dear heart. It is just me.</i>
</p><p>Despite the looks of horror his brothers and Yennefer are giving him, Geralt can’t wipe the relieved expression off his face as he watches the dragon- <i>Jaskier,</i> Geralt reminds himself-  preen and show off in a way that is no doubt terrifying for everyone else, yet merely exasperating to him. Expected, even.</p><p>Jaskier truly is a pompous bard through and through, scales or skin.</p><p>The sudden arrival of the same beast that had torched an entire army of soldiers just to save him and Cirilla soothes something deep in his chest that had been aching since their arrival at Kaer Morhen, an emptiness carved into bone that yearns for only one colorfully dressed bard to fill.</p><p>With the way Jaskier suddenly crouches low on the old stone wall, Geralt thinks the man can get a general sense of what he’s thinking through whatever bond the dragon is using to speak to him. </p><p>
  <i>Don’t move.</i>
</p><p>All at once, Yennefer and the others are scrambling back to make room as enormous wings release a gust of wind so powerful more pieces of stone come tumbling off nearby towers. In one great heave, the wings push that larger than life body into the air for a moment, its hulking form blocking out the sun and casting the courtyard in shadow before Jaskier comes crashing down to land beside Geralt. The explosive bang his legs make as they hit dirt and grass booms through the Keep and scatters loose rocks and various junk items from their resting places in a whirlwind of dust. </p><p>WIth Jaskier’s formidable draconic body beside Geralt, the hulking witcher looks comically tiny. It would take naught but a snap of his jaws to completely engulf the man. In fact, Geralt is certain the dragon can hear how his slow witcher’s heartbeat picks up just enough to almost resemble that of a humans; a fact that clearly makes the dragon preen, his tail whipping back and forth through the air behind him much like a large, lizard dog hybrid.</p><p>It is endearing as much as it is terrifying.</p><p>Distantly, Geralt can sort of understand why humans were instinctively so petrified of dragons when they were more commonplace, why peasant’s cries of ‘dragon! There’s a dragon hunting these parts, witcher!’ sounded so absolutely petrified despite the ‘dragon’ being nothing more than a fledgling Wyvern unable to even feed itself. It is nothing more than instinct; a self preservation honed by thousands of years of humanity growing and evolving that dumps ice cold dread into lesser beings, an itch to flee embedded in their bones.</p><p>Large slitted pupils surrounded by blazing blue regard the witcher as Jaskier tilts his head toward Geralt and warbles at him, carefully shifting his body so his wings are as tucked against his back as they can be in the limited space. Accidentally knocking over decrepit towers and tearing down walls is the exact opposite of what he wishes to achieve here.</p><p>First impressions and all that.</p><p>Vesemir is the first witcher to sheathe his weapons when it becomes clear Jaskier isn’t going to attack. The other two don’t stand down, their eyes mistrusting and calculating as they glance quickly between Geralt and their new guest, but Jaskier doesn’t blame them for their apprehension.</p><p>Not many have met a dragon, and fewer have seen one in their true form.</p><p>Jaskier would bet his lute that even the eldest witcher had never run into one in all its glory until today.</p><p>The tense silence is suddenly broken by a high pitched scream of delight sounding from the opposite end of the courtyard. <i>”Jaskier!</i>” Cirilla cries out in happiness, darting around the stunned witchers and sorceress standing between her and the dragon before they can even think to stop her as she skids to a halt in front of the dragon’s snout, a large grin tugging at her cheeks as the sweet scent of relief fills the air around them. “You came!”</p><p>
  <i>Of course I did, little one. I told you I will always come when you call.</i>
</p><p>The delighted gasp Cirilla makes as Jaskier speaks to her through telepathy makes Geralt huff a laugh. Jaskier seems to enjoy it as well, for he leans close enough to playfully bump her torso with his large snout, reveling in the pearly laugh she lets out as she sets her hands against his scales.</p><p>Jaskier makes a concentrated effort to make sure they’re not as hot as they tend to be after transforming, worried for the safety of her hands as she pets him and bestows him with praises like his dragon form is nothing more than a particularly pettable puppy.</p><p>Her immediate acceptance of him must knock the others out of their stupor. Yennefer looks positively baffled and, if Jaskier weren’t so focused on feeling proud for having managed to knock her off kilter, he would have noticed the youngest of the witchers pitching a fit where he is standing by the grindstone Vesemir had been working on. </p><p>“Geralt, you crazy geriatric motherfucker!” Lambert screeches as he shoves his way past a gaping Eskel toward Geralt. “You said he’s a fucking <i>bard!</i>”. His advance is immediately stopped from getting too close as Jaskier flicks narrowed ocean colored eyes at him and a huff of warning releases a gust of acrid smoke from flaring nostrils. “What kind of bard moonlights as a fucking <i>dragon?!</i>”</p><p>Jaskier makes a noise that Geralt supposes is a laugh, though it sounds more like the rumble that precedes a rockslide than anything.</p><p>“Geralt.”</p><p>Vesemir’s booming voice freezes each witcher immediately, demanding their attention as they turn to meet the hardened gaze of the oldest wolf among them. “You have a lot of explaining to do. And <i>you,</i>” Vesemir points a glove glad finger at the hulking dragon currently crouching in his court, “You are going to fix every single stone you knocked loose in that little display of yours. We have worked too many decades trying to rebuild this Keep for you to tear it down in one day.”</p><p>Somehow Jaskier manages to appear guilty even in dragon form as a soft noise of apology leaves his throat.</p><p>A heavy sigh sounds from the oldest witcher before he pinches the space between his eyes in exasperation and closes his eyes as though to stave off a headache. “Tomorrow, you and Geralt are fixing it. No excuses.”</p><p>It’s said in a tone that brooks no argument. It is just as much an order as acknowledging that Jaskier is welcome there, but Geralt can’t focus long enough on it as all of his attention is placed firmly on his bard, the sheer heat radiating off his draconic scales where he’s perched beside him nearly making him sweat.</p><p><i>I apologize if I frightened you,</i> The voice that rings in Geralt’s head seems to also ring in everyone else’s as well, if the constipated look of confusion filled awe Lambert is wearing is any indication. <i>I would not have been able to locate Kaer Morhen if not from above. I did not mean to bring destruction to its walls.</i></p><p>That explanation seems to appease everyone. The witchers all relax marginally after the apology, finally taking in Geralt’s relaxed form and concluding there is no threat to be dealt with.</p><p>Well, <i>almost</i> everyone relaxes.</p><p>Never in his years of knowing her has Geralt ever seen Yennefer appear as she does right now.</p><p>Her perfectly shaped lips are pulled into a snarl so ugly that it almost doesn’t seem to fit on her face, her eyes flashing with a barely restrained fury and overwhelming amount of <i>jealousy</i> as she glares down the dragon three hundred times her size. “It was <i>you.</i>” She struggles for words for a moment before she begins stomping toward Geralt, no doubt about to yell and berate him for not telling her his bard is a fucking <i>dragon.</i></p><p>Jaskier simply takes in the castle around them, raking his eyes over every nook and cranny he can see, oblivious to Yennefer’s wrath.</p><p>After all, why should she have had to hike up that blasted mountain in her expensive furs to seek out a draconic cure for infertility when Geralt had a dragon trailing after him all along?</p><p>Not that she truly thought the bard anyone of importance. Her dislike of him had been clear as day every time they ran into one another, her narrowed eyes and judging sneer at him adding an acidity to the spiteful words they threw at one another under the guise of friendly banter. She never truly gave Jaskier a second look, clearly thinking him nothing but an irritating bug to swat away. Not even worthy enough to be graced with her presence.</p><p>Or at least that’s what she thought back then.</p><p>Now, if looks could kill, Jaskier is sure he would have been struck down on the spot right then.</p><p>Before she can make it close enough to undoubtedly yell at Geralt however, a warning snarl that sounds as though a thousand boulders are being dragged against sandpaper ripples through the air and a large draconic head covered in horns intercepts her path.</p><p>Yennefer’s feet halt her in her tracks against her will as Jaskier leans his enormous head down until he is eye level with her, that rumbling growl still ricocheting through his long throat as he subtly pulls his lips back to flash rows of large, sharp teeth. He takes silent delight in releasing a small gust of breath through his clenched jaw, just enough to ruffle her clothing and mess up her hair. </p><p>
  <i>Do not go near him. I have stood aside as a bystander to your destruction of him and allowed you to play on his fears for far too long. It ends now.</i>
</p><p>She obviously isn’t expecting the sheer <i>fury</i> barely contained in the voice echoing through her head, though she covers up her surprise quite well with a mask of anger. The other witchers must be able to hear the same words Yennefer and Geralt are because they all look gobsmacked- well, Lambert and Eskel do; Vesemir’s eyebrows merely raise enough to almost meet his hairline. “You do not tell me what to do. <i>No man</i> tells me what to do.”</p><p>Another huff of breath leaves Jaskier’s great maw, this time strong enough to force Yennefer to stumble back a bit a step or two in order to remain standing, a sound suspiciously akin to laughter crackling like thunder through the dragon’s great chest.</p><p>
  <i>You misunderstand. I am not a man. I am a dragon of old, of the land before the Conjunction of the Spheres. Make no mistake; the sole reason you are still standing is because your life is tied to Geralt’s. You cannot die or he will succumb to death as well.</i>
</p><p>Being talked down to and threatened certainly does not make Yennefer any more agreeable to Jaskier’s demands, but Geralt can just barely catch a whiff of a scent floating around her that he has never scented on the sorceress before.</p><p>Fear. </p><p>The sorceress reeks of fear. </p><p>Still, she would not be Yennefer if she kept silent and did as she was told without raising hell first. </p><p>“And whose fault is that?” She snaps back, crossing her arms to hide the way her hands begin to shake just enough to be noticeable to the large dragon.</p><p>
  <i>Yes, Geralt is the one who made the wish, but you did not have to try and manipulate him to do your bidding. Breaking his heart and toying with him like you have is deplorable.</i>
</p><p>“We aren’t romantically involved. Whatever feelings we might have had were all but destroyed on the mountain during the dragon hunt. Yes, we are tied together because of Geralt’s lack of respect regarding other people’s freedom, but we are <i>not</i> and will <i>never be</i> together, so you can stop it with the shovel talk.”</p><p>Her voice wavers as she speaks, desperately trying to keep it even in her fear as Jaskier slowly lifts his head and regards her from above, that great big head tilting from one side to another in consideration before Jaskier seems to find what he was looking for.</p><p>
  <i>I admire your will to stand up to me now that you know what I am, little sorceress. Not many possess a drive as strong as yours. I truly believe that, had our paths crossed before your Destiny warped you into someone so power hungry and callous, we could have been friends.</i>
</p><p>“‘Friends?’” Yennefer blinks at him in subtle shock. “Friends get you killed. I am not someone who needs a lovesick fool following me around the Continent to know my worth.”</p><p>Jaskier can hear the witchers all hold their breath for a moment as he studies the five beings staring up at him in anticipation. </p><p>
  <i>Sometimes, a flower is just a flower. You know that better than most.</i>
</p><p>That is all Jaskier says before he turns his head away from Yennefer in a clear dismissal, not sparing her a second glance as those enormous lungs suck in a long breath and he turns his attention back to Geralt, pinning the witcher to the spot with his eyes alone. </p><p>
  <i>Come, Geralt. We have much to discuss.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Bearing witness to a being who has mastered polymorphism shift is certainly a sight to behold.</p><p>It’s… not anything like what Geralt expected.</p><p>The transformation isn’t at all similar to what little glimpses he has caught of Werewolves shifting against their will under a full moon, nor is it anything resembling the disconcerting abilities of a Doppler as they adopt one appearance after another, shedding faces like one would shed their trousers at the end of a long day.</p><p>The large form of the dragon doesn’t crackle and pop as joints and sinew remold themselves to fit into a smaller body. Wings don’t break and melt into flesh to form shoulder blades, and there is no screaming of pain involved, all of which Geralt is immensely thankful for.</p><p>It’s a much more simple process than that.</p><p>One minute, an enormous dragon stands before him in front of the doors to the main hall, and in the next, Jaskier appears from a cloud of black magic, the chaos swirling around him like a will-o’-the-wisp and ruffling his short, fluffy locks until the chaos fades and the deceptively human looking bard stands before him in all his gaudy, crimson clothed glory.</p><p>He’s wearing the red doublet Geralt knows is the bard’s favorite, the same one he had on when Geralt had shouted him out of his life what feels like decades ago but was merely a handful of years in the past. The chemise underneath is unlaced and opened enough to showcase the downy wisps of chest hair that poke out from the open neckline. </p><p>The pattern of the doublet combined with the trousers makes it seem as though Jaskier is covered in red scales, and the irony of it is not lost on the witcher. Leave it to Jaskier to play at a bumbling bard who hasn’t the sense to come in out of the rain and yet wear something that pays homage to his heritage in such a blatant way to those who know, yet inconspicuous to those who do not.</p><p>It’s clever. Clever like the man himself, and Geralt has long since admitted to himself that the red doublet suits his pretentious bard. </p><p>Except the man who stands before him now is nothing like the proud dragon that had taken up damn near the entire courtyard minutes prior. This man possesses none of the easy cheer and quick wit Geralt has come to associate with Jaskier. Instead, those once straight shoulders are now held as tightly as the bard’s lips, coiled and ready to flee at a moment’s notice should Geralt misstep.</p><p>Narrowed cornflower blue eyes regard Geralt with apprehension as eyelids blink over slit pupils, the sight still unnerving after having seen the bard appear as human as they come for so many years. It’s not a sight Geralt is used to but isn’t startled to find that he doesn’t mind it.</p><p>The anxiety he can smell wafting off his friend in waves quickly forces Geralt to focus on the situation at hand and not the way those ethereal eyes, so much like his own, cause a tightening in his gut that isn’t in any way unpleasant.</p><p>Something tells him that this is it. This will be the last chance he gets to set things right, to truly lay himself bare for Jaskier in a way that is at ends with every single lesson he has been taught as a witcher. </p><p>They slip out of the frenzied mess Jaskier has created in the courtyard with his arrival and into the main hall without bothering to check if they're being followed. Lambert’s shrieks and Eskel’s hushed conversation with Cirilla and Vesemir are far enough away to affirm the fact that they’re not being tailed, but Geralt doesn’t feel they’re truly alone until they make it to his room. The walls are thick enough to keep the dying screams of young boys contained within the small space; he’s certain they’ll be able to withstand any noise either himself or his bard are capable of making.</p><p>Somewhere off in the farthest reaches of the castle, Geralt can hear Yennefer portal back to her room, the fury wafting through the halls hitting his nose with every vibration of the wolf medallion against his chest.</p><p>It’s clear she’s not happy, but Geralt couldn’t give a horse’s arse about that right now.</p><p>The old door to his bedroom creaks as it shuts behind them with a loud click, cutting them off from the rest of the fortress and engulfing them in a silence of their own making. </p><p>That is, until Jaskier makes a surprised little sound as he takes in the bouquet of flowers and the bundle of dandelions tied off with a ribbon resting beside his lute on the large bed covered in furs. The bard pauses for a moment before making a beeline to his lute while trying to maintain the air of someone who definitely isn’t rushing to collect his most prized possession. “What is this?” He asks softly as he gingerly picks up the weeds, folding long musician’s fingers around the stems and cautiously petting at the bow holding them together.</p><p>“They’re dandelions.”</p><p>Jaskier gives Geralt a look that screams of expasteration. “I know <i>what</i> they are, dear, but <i>why</i> are they here?”</p><p>Geralt purses his lips and shifts his weight as he feels a bead of sweat travel down his back and soak into the soft high waist of his trousers, the one he knows Jaskier likes. “I picked them for you.”</p><p>Never in his life has Geralt felt more like a schoolboy confessing to his crush than he does right then. </p><p>“You picked them?” Jaskier parrots incredulously.</p><p>“Yes. You said you like dandelions.”</p><p>The way Jaskier looks at him now makes Geralt want to turn away, to flee the situation and the fluttering feeling in his gut at the wide look of shock on the bard’s face.</p><p>But he doesn’t. He stays right where he is and soaks in the sight of Jaskier, the paleness of his face and the teeth marks on his bottom lip where he had bit at it to relieve some of his nerves.</p><p>At the way those slitted pupils expand and contract to adjust to the light of the room and to display Jaskier’s emotions. The most prominent one at the moment being incredulity and suspicion. “Didn’t know you actually listened to me when I rambled about <i>flowers,</i> of all things.”</p><p>“I always listen to the things that matter.”</p><p>Jaskier catches his mouth before it drops, the clack of his teeth echoing around them in the sudden silence. Had he been human, Geralt thinks a cold sweat might have covered his skin by now from the tension in the room.</p><p>It’s preposterous. Every gruelling lesson that had been beaten into his bones told him that witchers don’t have emotions, that it’s easier to smother and bury them where they’ll never see the light of day.</p><p>He had never been taught what to do if they happen to creep up on him without his knowledge until they’re too overwhelming to ignore.</p><p>It is everything that gets witchers killed, yet Geralt finds himself reveling in the feeling solely because it’s <i>Jaskier</i> who invokes it.</p><p>There are no malicious fingers weaving holes into his brain in order to suck out information he isn’t willing to give, memories he does not wish to share or relive simply because greedy violet eyes desire the knowledge. There are no soft words whispered to him through painted lips as his choices are taken from him by a sorceress who hungers for power so strongly that even repressed, revolting memories are not off the table.</p><p>The feeling Jaskier invokes in him is pure.</p><p>An ease he had never experienced when enclosed in a room alone with Yennefer spreads through his limbs, his fingers and toes nearly tingling with the lack of lilac and gooseberries invading his senses.</p><p>There is no reason to be afraid. There will be no harsh threats or demands for things he cannot give. Jaskier does not push his limits like Yennefer; does not demand the world at his feet for purely selfish reasons even when he is at his most furious.</p><p>Jaskier does not fog his mind in a cloud of lust so strong he can’t tell which direction is up or down, or what is right from wrong. Jaskier doesn’t take away his choice.</p><p>Said bard seems to consider his explanation as his raised eyebrows smooth into a blank look, lithe fingers absentmindedly petting the petals of the yellow weeds for a moment before setting them carefully down beside the bouquet in the tankard on the side table. Soft hands that have patched Geralt up more times than he can count grip the neck of his lute hard enough to make his knuckles go pale. “Geralt…”</p><p>Geralt bites back the urge to silence the other man, to bask in this feeling of contentment at having the bard safe and alive in his sleeping quarters for just a moment longer. </p><p>Interrupting Jaskier never leads to anything good.</p><p>“You asked for time alone to think.” Is what Geralt eventually says as the silence between them stretches on for a bit too long, his statement coming out gruff in his rumbling voice as much as he tries to make it smoother, less caustic.</p><p>A small sigh leaves Jaskier’s pink lips as he sets his lute lovingly on the floor against the side table and seats himself heavily on the edge of the bed. The furs around him throw up a scent of <i>home</i> when Jaskier’s rump lands on them, animal fur and blade oil and <i>Jaskier</i> creating such an intoxicating treat for Geralt’s nose that the witcher can’t help but draw in a deep breath to memorize the scent, to keep it close to his heart when the source inevitably leaves him.</p><p>“That I did.” Jaskier agrees as he leans forward to place his elbows on his knees and run a hand back through his hair, some sweaty strands sticking up in clumps that have Geralt’s fingers itching to smooth down in a way he has never experienced with anyone else. “Thank you for listening to me and not trying to track me down.”</p><p>How has he managed to suppress this feeling for so long? The strength of the urge to curl around Jaskier and never let him leave his side again burned like wildfire through his chest, threatening to suffocate him with smoke dampening his lungs.</p><p>It had never been like this with Yennefer no matter how hard he tried. She never invoked these feelings in him, and now that he has gone so long without her presence and had time to clear his head, it becomes apparent quickly that he had been doing nothing but beating a dead horse in regards to trying to force something that wasn’t there.</p><p>Jaskier continues. “I needed to sort out my thoughts without outside interference. I… I needed to come to terms with some things and reconcile with others.”</p><p>Geralt offers a soft hum as he smothers his urges to hold him and takes a moment to study the bard’s soft face. A faint hint of stubble has surfaced on his healthy skin and is crawling over his shapley jaw and spreading partially down his throat. Rarely has he managed to catch a glimpse of the man in such a state; even during long hunts where neither of them had the luxury of spending a night at an inn, the bard would find a way to sneak himself out of Geralt’s line of sight and shave. Jaskier, who rarely allows himself to be seen without being clean shaven, sits before him now with his bottom lip being worried between his teeth and those expressive brows drawn together in concentration over otherworldly eyes framed by dark lashes.</p><p>It adds an element of danger to the bard that Geralt finds himself appreciating.</p><p>Silence engulfs the two of them once again as Geralt studies exhausted blue eyes burdened by bags that boast of sleepless nights, paying attention to the little crease between Jaskier’s eyebrows as the bard looks down at his lap and his shoulders sag.</p><p>Alone in the room Geralt grew up in, Jaskier looks… defeated.</p><p>An instinctual part of Geralt snarls at himself for allowing his bard to look like that. The logical part tells him he has the power to change this, to articulate an apology and explanation Jaskier deserves.</p><p>“Feel free to sit, witcher,” Jaksier flaps a hand at the space beside himself on the bed, clearly too exhausted to try and have a conversation with a man who is standing in the middle of the room, tense as a board. “I won’t bite. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe we are past the screaming stage in all of this, so I won’t be doing any of that nonsense either.”</p><p>Geralt can see an olive branch for what it is, so slowly, as though Jaskier might try to bolt at any second, the witcher makes his way to the bed and lowers himself onto the edge a mere foot or two away from the bard.</p><p>Some of the tension leaves those deceptively broad shoulders as Jaskier visibly soaks up their close proximity after such grueling time apart. The sight alone helps loosen the knot in Geralt’s chest as he studies the man who has walked beside him for twenty years, taking in every minute detail he’s allowed.</p><p>Smooth, unblemished skin stretches over Jaskier’s bones, only the soft hint of the first lines of crows feet showing his age. In all the time Geralt has known the other, the bard hasn’t physically aged. Back then Geralt had been sure that, had he asked, Jaskier would simply boast about his moisturizing routine and the various oils and soaps he insisted on carrying around.</p><p>He would have deflected the conversation in his favor to not have to admit to what he is.</p><p>Geralt must approach this with caution. Jaskier is deceivingly soft; he is laughter and light and happiness incarnate, but there is a fierce, cruel side to him that belies the creature hiding within supple skin and easy smiles. </p><p>“The dragon that torched the Nilfgaardian army,” Geralt begins carefully, “That was you.”</p><p>There’s a miniscule twitch to the edge of Jaskier’s lips as though he’s fighting an amused smile. “Of course it was me. Do you know any other dragon willing to decimate an entire army and put a target on their back by doing so?”</p><p>Geralt’s stomach twists into knots at the reminder that Nilfgaard will inevitably learn what happened in that field. Jaskier had made sure to wipe out every last soldier who bore witness to the carnage (and Geralt had double checked, even further burned the bodies until they were nothing but dust to keep necrophages away,)  but the townsfolk would without a doubt have come up with their own theories and word would get around.</p><p>After all, dragons are not inconspicuous creatures, and Jaskier even less so. There was bound to be at least one person who saw that hulking form take to the sky.</p><p>If that is the case, it won’t be just Cirilla that Emhyr and his armies will be after any longer.</p><p>Geralt is sure the emperor would find his uses for as ancient a being as Jaskier, and if not…</p><p>He has it in good faith that Nilfgaardian slave drivers and dungeon masters are some of the most skilled men on the Continent when it comes to extracting information from unwilling prisoners, human or otherwise.</p><p>Jaskier, in all his self sacrificing glory, had successfully managed to place the focus of the most power hungry kingdom right on his own back to save a single witcher. </p><p>And as Geralt sits there in stunned silence with Jaskier’s steady heartbeat a soft, comforting rhythm in the background, the witcher realizes this isn’t the first time his bard has gone without to provide for him. Not the first time he has placed himself directly in the path of danger, resolutely and unapologetically fierce in his defense of the White Wolf. </p><p>The lute has always been Jaskier’s weapon of choice and his words a close second. Not a single soul before him had the audacity to hear the way people treated Geralt and other witchers and had the gall to turn humanity’s scorn into something almost resembling begrudging acceptance through praising jigs. </p><p>It wasn’t only the people Jaskier played for that got to experience that tenaciously confounding protection of his when they begged him not to play songs of the White Wolf, to not remind them that monsters can appear as human as the rest of them.</p><p>No; Jaskier never took insults to Geralt’s name lightly, and not a single soul was spared his colorfully worded retorts no matter who they were. People in taverns who spit at him and refuse him sustenance and a room for the night simply because of what he is got the same treatment as lords and ladies.</p><p>As did strangers who tried to shortchange him when it came to collecting a debt owed for getting rid of monsters.</p><p>As did royalty who were so blinded by their wealth that they thought themselves able to convince the White Wolf to debase himself by becoming an assassin for hire.</p><p>As did even wild animals occasionally. Geralt can recall one specific time a Warg had gotten too close to him and Jaskier while he was wounded after a particularly bad hunt. Jaskier had wielded his lute like a bat and snarled threats of bludgeoning at the creature until it decided they weren’t worth the inevitable death by instrument it would receive if it attacked. </p><p>Jaskier had done so much for him throughout the years that Gealt suddenly finds himself breathless. </p><p>What could he possibly say in the wake of such a groundbreaking realization?</p><p>“Cirilla missed you.” The <i>I missed you</i> goes unsaid as Geralt stumbles his way through what has to be the most nerve wracking conversation of his life as he sets his sights on the tankard full of flowers on the nightstand. He knows his eyes tend to unnerve others, and while he has never caught a single whiff of fear from his bard, he would be loath to startle him in such a delicate situation. At least Jaskier doesn’t look offended as he snorts a huff of breath through his nose.</p><p>“I know she did. She spoke to me every night, telling me how you were haunting these halls like a Wraith on the anniversary of her wedding day. Just because I needed time away from you to sort out my thoughts didn’t mean I had to leave her without a way to speak with me.”</p><p>The world stops turning for Geralt as those words register.</p><p>What?</p><p>His confusion must show in his eyes because Jaskier gives his head a little shake as a small smile curls the edges of his lips. “Unbelievable. The famed White Wolf couldn’t use his witcher-y senses to pick up on the enchanted gift I gave to Cirilla? Not even <i>Yennefer</i> figured it out?” He says with a little waggle of his fingers to enhance his gentle taunt, though he looks far from happy at the moment.</p><p>All of a sudden, it clicks. “The string.” Geralt feels like slapping himself for how blind he had been. It wasn’t like Cirilla tried to <i>hide</i> them from him; he was simply so occupied with thoughts of Jaskier and making sure they didn’t perish on a mountaintop halfway to Kaer Morhen that he must not have noticed his medallion humming whenever she pulled them out on their way to the Keep and fiddled with them for something to do.</p><p>He just thought they were something to keep her hands busy to ward off boredom. She is a child, after all, though Jaskier definitely deserves credit where credit is due.</p><p>That Jaskier somehow managed to place that subtle of an enchantment on <i>lute strings</i> of all things…</p><p>Well. Geralt has to admit it is a very <i>Jaskier</i> thing to do, but definitely worthy of praise.</p><p>Almost as if reading his thoughts, Jaskier immediately makes an offended gasp. “They’re <i>lute strings,</i> you heathen.”</p><p>Geralt can’t help but crack a small smile at that familiar haughty tone despite still feeling wildly out of his depth. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>At once, Jaskier’s smile slips from his lips as he becomes sullen once again. “Ah, yes, about that,” soft pink lips open and close for a moment as the bard struggles for the right words to say, “I… wasn’t quite fair to you earlier. I didn’t give you much room to speak your mind. Well, room in between yelling, at least. I won’t apologize for what I said; you truly hurt me and I needed you to understand that but I realize I could have at least let you say your part.”</p><p>“You were angry. It’s understandable.” Geralt answers after a pause, frowning when Jaskier shakes his head.</p><p>“I wasn’t angry. I was <i>furious.</i> Filled with so much rage at the mere notion that you knew how I felt, <i>knew</i> you were actively hurting me yet didn’t bother to acknowledge it or let me down gently. I was never subtle in that regard.”</p><p>Geralt’s heart aches something fierce. Had Jaskier thought he knew and was just ignoring it all this time?</p><p>“I didn’t know, Jas. People liking me, let alone simply tolerating me, isn’t something I have much experience with.” Geralt stresses, voice low and pleading in a way that makes his skin crawl but pushing through it to ensure the other man understands that he’s telling the truth. </p><p>Somehow, it’s easier to speak with his long time friend like this without the scent of halfling blood invading his senses and adrenaline pushing fear through his limbs at the thought of Jaskier getting hurt. The spark that had ignited the firestorm between them has been extinguished, smothered and leaving behind two tired, heartbroken beings who just want to reconcile and move forward.</p><p>Or at least that’s what Geralt hopes even as the absolutely destroyed look Jaskier gives him at that piece of information makes him feel as though he’s being pitied. Realistically he knows the other man doesn't pity him, would never, yet the sadness that pulls at Jaskier’s lips and dampens his eyes tugs at Geralt’s heart. </p><p>Jaskier heaves a deep breath to visibly pull himself together. “Even so, I gave you many hints as to what I am, and while <i>no one</i> is entitled to my secrets, I…I could have been more direct, more clear in what I was trying to tell you.”</p><p>“‘M not the best with hints. Not good at piecing things together that aren’t related to monsters.”</p><p>“I know, dear, and I’m sorry I didn’t take your feelings into account.”</p><p>The problem is, Jaskier had taken his feelings into account <i>too much,</i> if that were possible. Geralt needs him to know that. “You did. You allowed me to make my own mistakes, to run away from myself when everything became too much.” The <i>you allowed me to run to Yennefer</i> goes unsaid, but Jaskier’s brows draw together in a way that lets Geralt know he understands the implication. </p><p>“Of course I did. You, my dear witcher, are the most stubborn, pigheaded man I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. Should I have tried to stop you, you undoubtedly would have pushed me away that much harder.” Jaskier leans back on his hands as he says this, gently running his fingers over the white bear pelt adorning the bed they’re sitting on. “Make no mistake. I am much too old to not be able to play the long game with some things, and you, love, require a vast amount of time to sort things out.”</p><p>The reminder of just how much his own life experience dwarfs Jaskier’s in comparison sobers Geralt a bit. </p><p>Even with countless lifetimes worth of knowledge stored away in that brain of his, with all the medals and degrees from Oxenfurt decorating him as a scholar loved by many, Jaskier had still kept his mouth shut and not interfered with Geralt’s life in a way that could have been seen as controlling.</p><p>None of the words Geralt hurled at him on the mountain were true. Jaskier is not to blame for any of the misfortunes Geralt has come to experience; those were all borne from his own poor decisions.</p><p>Jaskier had allowed Geralt to make his own mistakes and learn from them while being no more than a bystander to the entire process, gently guiding him back to the right path despite Geralt fighting him tooth and nail every step of the way. It’s nearly identical to the way Vesemir had mentored Geralt throughout his time in Kaer Morhen as a fledgling witcher, giving him all the information and techniques he needed to succeed but stepping back and allowing Geralt to hone those skills on his own. To make them <i>his</i> in a way they never would have been had the elder witcher not stepped back and given him time. </p><p>It should be shameful, a witcher being practically babysat by a being so much older and probably stronger than himself, knowing that same being was a witness to each and every one of his missteps in life. The whole situation is nearly laughable, but Jaskier somehow makes it bearable.</p><p>Makes it feel as though his guidance comes from a place of love rather than malicious intent.</p><p>Silence settles between them once more as Geralt keeps his gaze on those wandering fingers, watching them as they tug on the pelt’s fur before smoothing out the patches he had twisted between the pads of his fingers. </p><p>“You mentioned you were scared of what you felt for me.” Jaskier breaks the silence as he whispers in the still air around them, his hesitancy to voice the words shining through in the way he forgoes petting the pelt and moves to idly pick at the skin surrounding his nails, a nervous habit Geralt had noticed long ago. “What does that mean, exactly? And please Geralt, don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear. I swear on Melitele’s name I will not take it well if you don’t tell me the truth after all this.”</p><p>Geralt licks his suddenly dry lips before turning his gaze away from Jaskier and fixing it firmly on his own lap.</p><p>This is exactly what happened back on that mountain, him confessing feelings he shouldn’t be capable of having and causing everything he thought he wanted to abandon him. The pain of violet eyes shining with tears and the stinging words of rejection still echo in his chest and cause his hands to shake, but not as much as the memory of a broken bard barely holding himself together as he turns on his heel and walks out of Geralt’s life after a few misplaced words, taking all his joy and sense of rightness in the world with him.</p><p>It’s a sour memory but Geralt powers through it.</p><p>Powers through it to give Jaskier what he knows the man deserves to hear.</p><p>“I… feel affection for you.”</p><p>His confession isn’t anywhere near enough if the blank look Jaskier is giving him is anything to go by. But the bard isn’t shouting at him, isn’t berating his struggle with words and instead offers silence to help Geralt piece together his thoughts. </p><p>It’s… nice. </p><p>There’s  no way Geralt can pull off speaking his mind like Jaskier had back in the woods, the bard all but screaming at the top of his lungs and sobbing his pain for the whole world to hear. After all, Jaskier has lungs that are professionally trained to produce as loud a sound as possible to project his voice. Geralt had, in contrast, a lifetime and a half of monosyllabic grunts and huffed words at his horse.</p><p>Doesn’t mean he won’t try to articulate himself as best he can, though preferably without the screaming this time.</p><p>“I feel a level of affection for you that I know I don’t deserve. You’re pretentious, whiny, and keeping you out of trouble is more work than is worth it sometimes. And don’t get me started on the jokes.”</p><p>“I knew you always thought I was funny.” Jaskier jokes weakly as he reaches out a palm riddled with lute calluses and settles it on Geralt’s knee, the heat from it searing like a brand through the witcher’s blood. </p><p>“Wouldn't go that far,” Geralt jokes in their familiar back and forth as he stares at that hand, that one point of contact between himself and the one who means so much to him filling his chest with a courage not normally experienced outside of downing a potion or two. The rush of adrenaline is the same though, the slit pupils of Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes mimicking the enchanting color of a Blizzard potion.</p><p>“You were there for me when the world thought of me as nothing but a monster. You defended me and cared for me, and I know I haven’t been a good friend to you. I regret that deeply, and… I’m not as good with words as you are,” Geralt begins haltingly, watching Jaskier’s gaze follow the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he swallows, “And they tend to not come out the way I want. But I can... show you. If you’d let me.” His voice is stilted and halting as he forces the words out before he can think better of it. </p><p>Jaskier has every right to turn him down and demand he leave, to shout at him that he’s broken the bard’s heart one too many times to be forgiven again. And Gearlt truly expects just that to happen; or for Jaskier to rescind his confession and simply avoid him for the rest of winter, or perhaps even bribe Yennefer to portal him somewhere far away.</p><p>If she is still within the Keep, anyway.</p><p>The rejection will no doubt hurt, but before he can spiral down into a mess of self flagellation in the silence that precedes his offer, Jaskier makes a soft keening sound before the full force of the bard’s attention is on Geralt. Wide baby blue eyes regard him with something akin to surprised hope sparkling in their depths. “I’ve waited many years already. We have much to work out and you <i>definitely</i> will be treating me better but please, whatever it is you need to show me, do it.”</p><p>There is still so much they have left to talk about, so much more they each need to come to terms with, but that can wait. Geralt has led his only friend to believe a lie for so long that it would just be a travesty if he allowed it to go on any further.</p><p>For once, Geralt stops thinking and lets his body tell him what his heart has known for years.</p><p>Soft lips meet his own slightly chapped ones halfway in a gentle kiss.</p><p>Had Geralt still been capable of it, he thinks he would cry.</p><p>It is both everything and nothing like what Geralt had been expecting. Those tender lips are so much better than the ones in dreams that were hurriedly banished from his mind in the morning and leagues better than the ones he had imagined to be his bard on particularly bad days with Yennefer. </p><p>Their mouths move together in the most chaste kiss Geralt has ever experienced, if it can even be called a kiss. Neither make a move to break the fragile moment and try to deepen it beyond what either are ready for. The wounded noise that Jaskier makes at the contact vibrates against his mouth as the bard tightens the hand he has on Geralt’s knee, the strength of it far from surprising given what the man is, though Geralt can certainly appreciate the way his rumble back in response prompts Jaskier to pull away only far enough to rest their foreheads together, the blue eyed man’s breath shaky and just as overwhelmed as Geralt feels.</p><p>Jaskier’s face is boasting a flush high on his cheekbones, an expression so vulnerable painting his features that it has Geralt itching to close the distance between them and resume kissing the man he had run from for so long. “Well,” Jaskier breathes, the soft puff of air hitting Geralt’s lips as he huffs a disbelieving laugh, “I had my suspicions, I’ll admit, but I never would have thought you would be the first one to remove your head from your arse and make a move.”</p><p>Their kiss was nothing more than a chaste brush of lips, a prelude to actual kissing more than anything, yet Geralt feels himself grinning before he can bite it back. “Your lack of faith in me is astounding.” It’s nothing more than a gentle rebuttal, yet it has Jaskier beaming as though he had just won the greatest war of his life.</p><p>And considering what they had both been through the last twenty years, what <i>Geralt</i> had put them through, world shattering secrets or not, that was an accurate statement.</p><p>When Jaskier’s face is flushed and his eyes practically closing from the force of his smile, Geralt huffs an amused laugh and gently guides the bard’s head to his neck in a pseudo hug, moving slowly to allow the other man time to pull away only to rumble his happiness as Jaskier buries his face in the junction of his neck and shoulder. One large scarred hand gently cups the back of Jaskier’s head to ground himself. Short, soft brunette strands tickle his calloused fingers as Jaskier makes himself comfortable.</p><p>It’s not the first time they’ve been this close, though all of those other times he had been more concerned about the both of them living to see another day rather than paying any attention to how Jaskier’s breath fanned over his sensitive skin. Curious, wandering lips brush against the tendons in his neck before a little huff of breath is muffled against him, the sound enough to make Geralt pay attention just in time to catch Jaskier pulling in a subtle drag of air through his nose.</p><p>Wait…</p><p>“Did you just <i>scent</i> me?”</p><p>“I’m a dragon, Geralt,” Jaskier chides him as he pulls back enough to meet Geralt’s gaze, “It’s what I do. Have been doing, in fact.” The warmth of his smile sets Geralt’s blood pumping faster as the soft smell of <i>joy</i> and <i>Jaskier</i> and <i>home</i> fill the air and soak into the furs on the bed, embedding themselves as though they never want to let go.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t want them to go, either.</p><p>The joy in Jaskier’s eyes dim a bit as he pulls back enough to put some space between them, though the hand resting on Geralt’s knee stays firmly in place, absentmindedly petting the fabric stretched taut over his skin. “While that was definitely a long time coming, I have to ask: what are you going to do from here on out? I will not stand by and allow you to treat me poorly again.” </p><p>That’s not a question Geralt was expecting so soon after a kiss that shook his entire world in a way he was wholly unprepared for. Leave it to Jaskier to cut to the heart of an issue without remorse.</p><p>Geralt furrows his brows before heaving a sigh. “Jaskier…” He begins, giving himself a moment to put together the words he wants to say. The ghost of Jaskier’s lips on his own sends a gentle wave of confidence through him, enough that he pulls together what needs to be said. “Yen and I haven’t been together since the mountain. We are… friends, if that is the right word for it. We must be, for she is to train Cirilla in controlling her chaos. But there is absolutely nothing more than that going on, nor do I wish there to be.”</p><p>And damn it all, Jaskier looks floored. “What? Truly?”</p><p>Well, Geralt can’t really blame him for assuming he and the sorceress were still intimate. He <i>did</i> stupidly tie their lives together; it seemed a natural progression to develop a relationship from such a strong bond.</p><p>Yet that bond is what killed them, in the end. </p><p>Yennefer, for all her power and desire to get what she wants, lost her interest in him the moment she found out her feelings could be manipulated by a Djinn wish. Her desire to make her own choices and not have things be decided for her had effectively wiped out any feelings for one another either of them might have had, and Geralt can’t really say he regrets losing his affection for her all that much.</p><p>It had been affection cultivated in an attempt at distraction. That, and he felt a kinship with her. Both of them hadn’t had a choice in what they were to become; her, sold by her father for less than a pig’s worth and him, abandoned by his mother and thus made into something he never had a choice in being. They were alike in so many ways. <i>Too</i> many ways. Ways that caused their interactions to resemble an attempt at mixing water with oil. They fed off each other’s anger and resentment and it had taken him so long to realize that wasn’t what a relationship was supposed to feel like, that he had nearly lost the one man he actually loves.</p><p>Love. How Vesemir would laugh at him if he could see him now, anchored to the spot by a mere hand gently resting astride his knee. </p><p>Though to be honest, he isn’t quite sure Vesemir would be bold enough to say anything resembling distaste toward Jaskier. </p><p>Jaskier is a lion in a field of lambs. A field of mutated, professional monster slaying lambs, but lambs all the same. Even the eldest witcher has to have the common sense to know that, should Jaskier decide to smite them all, a handful of witchers and a sorceress would be no match for him.</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier continues, drawing Geralt out of his head and back to reality, “You spaced out there for a second. Is that true? Are you truly done running from me to go to her?”</p><p>There is hope in his voice that fills Geralt simultaneously with affection and a cold shock of guilt. “Yes. I realized my mistakes the moment you left me on that mountain top. I tried for two years to find you, and in doing so met Cirilla. I promise I’m done running from my feelings. She… you must understand, Jaskier. It wasn’t just me trying to hide what I feel. We are so much alike; neither of us had a choice in what we were to become yet have so many expectations placed on our shoulders. Meeting someone who shares the same pain is rare, especially for someone like me. I tried to tell you back at camp but I couldn’t find the right words.”</p><p>Jaskier nods his head in understanding, though the corners of his lips are pulled tight in a frown.</p><p>Geralt continues. “The Djinn wish was truly just to save her life. I felt there was no other way to help her for saving you. Jas, I owed her so much for giving us more time together, for not allowing death to take you away before I could make things right. I don’t know what I would have done had my foolish wish for peace and quiet ripped you from my side.”</p><p>At that, Jaskier avoids Geralt’s gaze and instead settles his sight on the bedroom door. “Ah. Yes, about that. I… actually wasn’t in any real danger. Well, mortal danger, anyway. That growth in my throat hurt like hell though.”</p><p>The memory of Jaskier wheezing for breath and spitting up blood causes Geralt’s heart to nearly skip a beat at the resurgence of dread he had felt on that day.</p><p>More so when he realized it was an affliction of his own doing. “What.”</p><p>Jaskier offers him a sheepish look as he flaps his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was more an inconvenience than anything. It had been so long since I had to deal with healing something that powerful that it took me longer than normal to set myself to rights.”</p><p>Geralt will  never admit to the rush of relief that trickles through his veins at knowing Jaskier wasn’t truly in as dangerous a predicament as the witcher had thought. “But Yennefer healed you.”</p><p>The mention of her name causes Jaskier’s frown to return. “She did the last little bit of healing I was too tired to do. I had done most of the work. All she did was give me that last push to banish the curse.”</p><p>Something tells Geralt that, should someone mention to Yennefer how she hadn’t done as much as she clearly thought she had, there would be trouble. Still, she had given Jaskier that last incentive he needed to carry on, so she deserved at least a modicum of respect. “Hmm. I don’t think she would appreciate learning that her healing skills have been outdone by my bard.”</p><p>That at least gets rid of the frown on Jaskier’s face, his eyes lighting up at whatever scenario is playing in his head. He gives a theatrical shudder. “To be completely honest, dear heart, I would rather engage Valdo Marx in a round of particularly disappointing sex than have to speak to her again.”</p><p>And well. That mental image certainly won’t leave Geralt for a few years to come.</p><p>“Don’t know how I would live it down if I became the witcher who broke a bard’s heart so badly that he slept with his mortal enemy.”</p><p>“Not <i>just</i> a witcher,” Jaskier corrects as he pushes himself to his feet in one fluid movement, turning on his heels to look down at Geralt with his hands on his slim hips and a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. <i>”My</i> White Wolf.”</p><p>Geralt sucks in a sharp breath as the fluttering feeling in his chest and stomach intensifies enough to nearly knock him back with the force of it. Never has he seen Jaskier so happy, so <i>comfortable</i> in his own skin in the presence of the witcher. </p><p>Never has anything in his life felt so right. Yes, he is a monster hunter by trade and has made his peace with it; honed his skills to do right in the world, yet even that pales in comparison. Geralt can’t shake the addicting feeling of being accepted, of being truly <i>wanted</i>, so innocently and wholeheartedly in a way he hasn’t experienced once in his long, long life. </p><p>It’s intoxicating. </p><p>The appreciative eyes Jaskier is giving him even more so, and just as he is about to reach out and pull the bard back to the bed to hopefully kiss him again, to truly convince him that he is done running, a muffled sound of shuffling can be heard just beyond the closed bedroom door. </p><p>A single curious sniff lets Geralt know it’s Cirilla behind the door, no doubt wanting to know if he had finally swallowed his pride and apologized to his bard. Jaskier seems to come to the same conclusion as a wicked grin splits across his face, mischief dancing in eyes that are slowly returning to a more human appearance. Geralt has an inkling about what Jaskier is about to do, but before he can stop the man, Jaskier creeps over to the door and swings it open just in time to catch Cirilla scuttling back on her bottom from where she had clearly had her ear pressed to the old wood in hopes of hearing something.  </p><p>“Were you eavesdropping, little one? My, how unladylike.” Jaskier tuts in fake indignation, hands placed on his hips to appear every inch the disappointed parent look he was going for. Geralt barely smothers a smile at the ridiculous sight as he comes to stand beside Jaskier in the doorway.</p><p>Cirilla quickly flaps her hands in denial as a guilty look crosses her face, emerald eyes wide as she glances between the two men. “N-no, I was just…” She trails off as soon as she sees the way Geralt’s eyes crinkle at the corners from the force of the smile he gives up hiding, barely taking his gaze off the bard beside him in his joy. <i>”Oh,</i> She breathes, a stunned look of awe slackening her mouth before a grin so wide it must hurt her cheeks appears. “You made up!” She cries, throwing herself at Geralt and wrapping her thin arms around his middle before reaching one hand out to make grabby motions at Jaskier, clearly wanting him to join in the hug. </p><p>A full bellied laugh sounds from Jaskier as he takes in the sight in front of him, the two most important people in his long life radiating so much happiness that Jaskier feels nearly drunk with it as he meets Geralt’s soft gaze and revels in the contentment radiating from gentle yellow eyes. The white haired witcher gives a nearly imperceptible nod before Jaskier closes the distance between them and wraps both Cirilla and his witcher in a hug, delighting in the squeal this earns from the little girl.</p><p>“Hey!” A voice shouts from the floor below, breaking the serene moment and throwing them back into reality. Lambert’s angry stomps and Eskel’s softer ones coming up the stairs prompt Jaskier to pull away from his hoard and position himself just enough in front of them that, should Lambert feel inclined to make a move to attack, Jaskier would be able to stop him before any damage is done. </p><p>A growl begins to rumble low in his throat as the young witcher reaches the top of the stairs and begins marching his way down the hall toward them, Eskel hot on his heels looking like an exasperated mother as he keeps trying to slow Lambert’s determined stride.</p><p>“Lambert.” Geralt warns just as the younger witcher comes to a halt in front of them, Jaskier’s lithe body deceptively nonchalant even as he traces Lambert’s face for any sign that he’s about to make a move. </p><p>“Geralt,” Lambert hisses back, a hand on one hip and an accusing finger pointed at his brother, “We weren’t done. You don’t get to walk away without an explanation, not after how you put us all through hell the last two winters stomping around the Keep lamenting about your lovely bard.”</p><p>Eskel makes an expression behind his younger brother’s back that screams ‘I tried to stop him, I’m sorry’ as Jaskier visibly begins to relax, a curious tilt of his head all Geralt needs to see to know he will be getting questioned further about that specific piece of information. </p><p>“And <i>you,</i>” Lambert shifts that accusing finger to point at Jaskier, poking his chest as he accentuates each word with a little jab. “How <i>dare</i> you make an entrance like that. How the fuck are we supposed to compete with a dragon? That was so fucking cool, I still can’t wrap my head around it!” A good natured grin breaks out across Lambert’s face.</p><p>Twin sighs from the other witchers sound out in unison as the tension drains from each one of them when it becomes clear there will be no battles. </p><p>Jaskier, the insufferable sod, perks up and preens at the praise. “I figured what I am would come out eventually, what with being surrounded by witchers and all, so I thought, ‘why not get that awkward conversation out of the way by just showing you all?’”</p><p>“Fucking genius. Seeing ol’ papa Vesemir nearly shit himself like that was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>At least Jaskier has the sense to appear a bit sheepish at that. “Ah, I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”</p><p>Eskel gives a fond shake of his head as Cirilla lets go of Geralt and wanders over to stand by Jaskier’s side, the lute strings in her pocket giving a faint hum from the close proximity to their enchanter. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The sorceress has been tearing her room apart for the past hour or so. Vesemir had to yell at her to get her to stop destroying stuff and to give you guys some time to talk things out.”</p><p>Geralt owes Vesemir for that one. </p><p>Had Yennefer interrupted them to no doubt rant to Jaskier about his heritage and things of that nature, he knows the two most likely would have come to blows. </p><p>Blows where only one of them would come out victorious, and Geralt has no doubt as to who that would be. </p><p>The happiness surrounding Jaskier like a second skin brings a genuine smile to Geralt’s lips. Joy has always looked best on his bard, accentuating his boisterous nature and people loving attitude.</p><p>Here, in a castle full of witchers, Jaskier appears to feel more at home than Geralt has ever seen him, both his brothers laughing at something the bard said and Cirilla stuck like a leech to his side.</p><p>A glance over his shoulder reveals the dandelions he had picked for the other man resting gently against Jaskier’s lute, simple and unassuming and so right that had he been able to, Geralt thinks he would keep them all like this forever.</p><p>Forever full of gentle smiles and carefree laughter, and the scent wafting from the man he loves cements the one fact Geralt knows without a shadow of a doubt. </p><p>They’re home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please don't kill me for the cliffhanger, I promise you'll like the next chapter.<br/>Also, I've been meaning to ask. Do you guys prefer longer chapters like this or would you find it easier to read if I split them up into smaller chapters? I should have asked this way earlier lol<br/>Thank you for reading and have a sparkling week!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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